


You May Contribute a Verse

by BuddhistBabe



Category: Backstrom (TV)
Genre: Inspired by Poetry, Leaves of Grass, M/M, Pining, Poetry, Walt Whitman - Freeform, great american poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 14:35:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3653994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuddhistBabe/pseuds/BuddhistBabe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A pretentious, self-gratifying, intellectual piece, in which I weave Walt Whitman quotes into Valentine and Niedermayer's conversation.</p><p>"That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse."<br/>― Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass</p>
            </blockquote>





	You May Contribute a Verse

**Author's Note:**

> I've put the poem/lines at the beginning and end of every chapter so that it can be read before and after the context.

_“You have not known what you are--you have slumber'd upon yourself all your life;_  
_Your eye-lids have been the same as closed most of the time;_  
_What you have done returns already in mockeries;_  
_Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return in mockeries, what is their return?_  
_The mockeries are not you;_  
_Underneath them, and within them, I see you lurk;” _  
__ ― Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

Gregory Valentine _is_ more of a Walt Whitman kind of guy. Back when his mother was the one who spread her legs to keep him fed, he spent most of his days sitting on the thin carpeting in the classics and poetry aisle of the nearest chain bookstore. His now tattered _Leaves of Grass_ was not the first thing he’d ever stolen, not even the first book he’d ever stolen, but it was the most enduring. A relic of his days as a homeless hustler, and he tenderly perused it when he felt particularly introspective; adrift of pot fumes or hazy afterglow.

When Valentine escaped his boogeyman, the police kept him for hours in what he still, at the time, considered enemy territory. When he’d finally been released, he’d rushed to his hiding spot, heedless of its proximity to where he’d been abducted, and found the thin paperback still hidden; safe. He’d clutched it to his chest, felt it press against the burns, and wept how he had not dared to in front of the social worker therapist.

“I see you lurk.” Niedermayer said wryly, approaching Valentine where he stood behind the crime scene tape.

“Underneath and within my mockeries?”

“The mockeries are not you,” Niedermayer quoted wistfully, with a small, humble smile.

Valentine gave him a wicked smirk, but inside he might as well have been swooning. Even in his wide and varied explorations of the male form, few of his lovers had ever quoted American poetry so well, or so often. Of course, Peter Niedermayer was not a lover, or more accurately, not Valentine’s lover. For the man was certainly _a lover_ in his manner.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to be here.” Niedermayer said cautiously.

“I’m behind the tape.” Valentine played with the edge of the yellow banner, even as he leaned across it to get into Niedermayer’s space, “How are your mockeries today, gorgeous?”

“I have to admit, I’m feeling a bit forlorn.”

“Aww!” Valentine forced his face into a playful pout, rather than the more genuine look of concern the words sought to pull forward, “Difficult case?”

“Young victim.” Niedermayer said, and then added, as if realizing his answer was more succinct than usual, “ _Youth is a period of timelessness when the horizons of age seem too distant to be noticed._ It’s not natural for a sunset to come early.”

It was not Whitman, and Valentine found himself a bit disappointed.

“You’ll catch whoever did it, my dialectical dilettante.” Valentine purred as way of comfort, reaching out to fiddle with Niedermayer’s tie.

“Niedermayer!” Backstrom bellowed from across the courtyard, “Stop flirting with my tenant and come tell Gravely how wrong she is!”

Valentine glanced over in time to see the petite red head roll her eyes, and glower evenly at the back of Backstrom’s head.

“You’d better go.” Valentine whispered conspiratorially, like they were sweethearts unwilling to leave each other’s embrace.

“So should you.” Niedermayer countered, “Moto can give Backstrom a ride to the station.”

“But who’s going to give _you_ a ride, hmm?”

“You’re always so...determined. Do you think I was lying when I said I was heterosexual?”

“No, not lying.” Valentine mused, “but perhaps… _You have not known what you are_?”

Niedermayer’s face went as close to annoyed as it ever did, which was something decidedly more similar to sadness. The tall man, in his flattering slimfit suit, walked back towards to epicenter of the crime scene. Valentine held his breath and waited. After a few steps, Niedermayer paused and glanced back over his shoulder, biting his lips together when he met Valentine’s eyes, before quickly turning away and hurrying forward.

“I see _you_ lurk, Peter Niedermayer.” Valentine said with dark glee.

 _“You have not known what you are--you have slumber'd upon yourself all your life;_  
_Your eye-lids have been the same as closed most of the time;_  
_What you have done returns already in mockeries;_  
_Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return in mockeries, what is their return?_  
_The mockeries are not you;_  
_Underneath them, and within them, I see you lurk;”_  
― Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

**Author's Note:**

> I started out intending to write a much longer, one chapter fic, with each part inspired by a particular favorite poem or collection of lines.
> 
> But every time I tried to write part 2, it felt trite compared to this first one. I do want to try to carry on with this style, but it may take much longer before I feel comfortable publishing.


End file.
